


Unimaginable

by mslilylashes



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Child Loss, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mslilylashes/pseuds/mslilylashes
Summary: There are moments that the words don't reach, there is suffering too terrible to name. You hold your child as tight as you can, and push away the unimaginable.Moriarty did burn the heart out of Sherlock... The day he had his sniper put a bullet in his boy.BBC Sherlock/Hamilton crossover.TW: child loss, TW: grief, TW: mourning
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Unimaginable

**Author's Note:**

> So this is something I've been working on in earnest for a few months now between projects, until it became a project in itself. 
> 
> I'm basically Hamiltrash 24/7, and when I heard Kelly Clarkson's version of 'It's Quiet Uptown' from the Hamilton MixTape, I just saw Sherlock and John, lost in grief, and the idea was born. It may become something bigger, as there is an outline for the entire plot, but this is the part that spoke to me the most, because 'It's Quiet Uptown' is one of my favourite songs in Hamilton.
> 
> I have tentative plans for an entire crossover story, but all that needs to be known for this story to make sense is that Sherlock and John raised Harry's son Hamish after she dies during childbirth, and have a wonderful life until Sherlock's past with one James Moriarty comes back to haunt him right around the time Hamish is 19. Hamish - young, indignant, and steadfastly loyal to his father - goes off to confront Moriarty, and clear his father's name, but this proves to be part of Moriarty's plan all along to burn the heart out of Sherlock, and Hamish is killed by Sebastian Moran. This story deals with the aftermath.
> 
> Aaahhh... Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> xx lilylashes

UNIMAGINABLE

_It’s quiet uptown._

The thing about living in a small town is that even non-events somehow seem like big events, because even the slightest break in the monotony is a distraction, so needless to say, when the famous detective from London moves into the old Wilmington Place at the edge of town with his husband (! Of all things!), it causes nothing short of an uproar. Even the sleepiest country bumpkin has at least heard of Sherlock Holmes, even if they don’t realise that the reason they knew his name was because of his blogger and ‘homosexual life partner’, Dr Watson. They know he’s had some recent trouble with the law, and that he’d been called into a big fancy trial as a star witness when that madman had called him out personally. And, more recently, they know that he’s suffered an unimaginable loss when his adoptive son had been brutally murdered trying to clear his name.

The day that the moving van ambles down the road, kicking up great clouds of dust, and pulls into the drive of Wilmington Place, more than half the population finds the least conceivable reasons imaginable to walk, drive, ride, or wander past the front gate in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the new, infamous neighbours, but the only souls around are a few young men silently unloading furniture and boxes, and before long, they leave the property as well, and it is as though no one had been there at all.

The elusive new tenants must have arrived sometime later that night, under the cover of darkness, because after that, it is as though they have always been there. It becomes so common to see the dark figure of Sherlock Holmes perched unmoving, and expressionless on the wooden bench overlooking the garden, that even the nosiest passerby stops mentioning it over morning tea. After a few weeks, he begins attending mass at the local chapel, always sitting closest to the door, and never speaking to anyone. It is only out of the corner of an especially keen eye that his look of pure anguish can be spotted — to the rest of the world, everything about him remains set in stone.

A month or two after his first appearance, he begins walking from Wilmington Place, on the very edge of town, all the way to Becker Farm, a good twenty kilometres away. The walks are always solitary, take place rain or shine, and he rarely stops in any of the shops or restaurants along the way. It seems as though, rather than travelling _to_ a destination, he is walking simply to get _away_ from something.

Or perhaps some _one_.

No one sees his husband, despite the fact that they have lived in the village nearly two months. It seems that Dr Watson has simply become a spectre that is said to haunt the grounds, but is never actually seen, even at the window. The rumour mill is alight with speculations as to the reason for this, the most popular (and truthfully, most accurate) hypothesis being that he’d gone mad with grief after the death of his son. 

‘He was the one who found young Hamish,’ the cashier at the grocery store whispers one day across the aisle to a pair of old women doing their shopping, ‘Held the boy in his arms as he bled out on the pavement. My cousin Billy lives in London, and was there that night. Says he’s never heard a more wretched animal cry than what came outta Dr Watson that night, the poor bloke.’

‘I can’t imagine,’ one of the women murmurs to her friend, ‘To lose your child in such a horrid fashion. It was all that husband’s fault, you know. Got too big for his britches, didn’t he? And now that poor boy’s dead-’

The bell over the door rings suddenly, causing all three women to jump, and pink to creep into their cheeks when they find themselves faced with the gaunt and stoic face of Sherlock Holmes. He gives them a cursory nod before pushing past them to complete his meagre shopping list. Of course he can tell that he’d just been the topic of their conversation — he can read it in the cross of the cashier’s arms, and the frayed sleeve of the woman on the left. He can also tell how vehemently she feels that his son’s death had been his fault, and it makes his insides feel as though they are full of rats. He wishes he could tell her he knows how very right she is, but he’d never engaged any of the neighbours in conversation, and is not about to start now.

That’s the thing about small towns. The quieter it is, the more everyone talks. 

Not so quiet uptown after all.

~*~

Sherlock returns home with the shopping, weighted down more from guilt and misery than the bags he carries. He thinks back idly of the days at Baker Street when John had shouted about how he never picked up the shopping, and realises yet again how much he misses everything about it — Baker Street, John shouting, and most importantly, Hamish giggling madly at hearing his Papa rant and rave. 

If his heart ached any more, he fears his clavicle would split in two.

He turns the kettle on, and sets about putting the shopping away while he waits for it to heat up, then makes a cup of tea to John’s exact preference, like he has done three times a day for the last two months. He carries it carefully to the darkened bedroom, and pads across the room quietly, kneeling down on the floor by John’s side of the bed, setting the cup and saucer on the bedside table. John is laying on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, and making no indication he even notices Sherlock’s presence.

‘John?’ Sherlock say quietly, ‘I made you tea. Will you drink it this time? Please? Just a few sips today?’ 

There was a time when he would have said he never begged for anything in his life, but that time was long since over. He begs John for every bite of food he chokes down, or sip of liquid he takes, because if left to his own devices, John would let himself wither away into nothing, and Sherlock cannot stand another heartbreak.

‘Not now, Sherlock,’ John whispers, his voice croaky and tight, ‘I just can’t right now. I’m sorry.’ He looks absolutely devastated by this confession.

Sherlock nods, hating everything all over again — what is the point of living in a world in which John Watson could not enjoy a cup of tea.

He tries conversation again, ‘It’s okay love,’ he says thickly, doing his best to sound as though he is not being strangled by his emotions, ‘How about a wash, then?’

John’s eyes slide over to Sherlock’s, and he still does not move from the bed for a long moment, but then slowly he nods. Sherlock sighs in relief, places a supportive arm up for John to grasp, and lays his other hand on John’s back to steady him. He can feel every wretched rib and vertebrae from beneath John’s t-shirt. 

Together, step by step, they make their way to the bathroom, and Sherlock guides John to sit on the edge of the tub while he runs the taps, keeping one hand on John’s shoulder the whole time. He helps John strip off his t-shirt and pyjamas, and ease his way into the tub. Sherlock rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, grabs a flannel and some soap, and gently, reverently, begins washing John as he sits there in a daze. Once he is done, he pulls the stopper, and wraps a towel around John’s shoulders, helping him from the tub.

‘Remember the first time we gave Hamish a bath?’ John asks suddenly, sitting on the edge of the tub, ‘You were afraid he was too small for the bathtub, so we stopped up the kitchen sink, and washed him in there, and used a dish towel to dry him? Mrs Hudson was appalled.’

‘I remember,’ Sherlock replies, eyes prickling, ‘She was shrieking that she’d just used the dish towels to mop up chemicals from the table, so I grabbed my dressing gown, and wrapped him up in it. And you laughed, and said maybe I’d make a good dad after all.’

‘Oh, God,’ John whispers, covering his face with his hands, ‘I miss him, Sherlock. Every second of every day.’

‘I know you do,’ Sherlock says, his voice breaking, ‘As do I. I’m so sorry, John. It’s all my fault. I killed our son.’

John stares at the floor, where the water is pooling on the tiles at his feet. The towel slips from his shoulders, but he makes no move to grab it.

‘Yes,’ he says finally, the look on his face nothing short of loathing, ‘Yes, you did.’

~*~

More months passed before John is finally able to leave the bed by his own volition, and a few weeks after that, he will even consent to eating and drinking without pleas, threats, or bargains. He still barely looks at Sherlock, and Sherlock finds his days almost intolerably lonely. He bitterly remembers how very alone he felt in the time before John— back in his flat at Montague Street, back at university, hell, even back when he lived with Mummy, and Daddy, and Mycroft — and knows that this is worse. At least back then, he had nothing to compare loneliness to, because it was all he knew. Now, he has torturous memories of a life full of love that slowly choke him in the silence of the cottage.

He never minded silence before, but now he hates it.

He told John once that he sometimes went days without speaking, and John said it wouldn’t bother him. He thinks that maybe John should have asked him if it would bother him if John went suddenly mute, but he knows nothing could have prepared him for this.

Grief has taken a physical toll on Sherlock as well — he sees it every day when he looks in the mirror, and it’s a constant reminder of startling unfair it is that life continues on for him, whilst Hamish is interred six feet beneath the ground. His hair has gone grey, his face is hollow and lined. His skin has a pale, papery quality, and his shoulder sag under the weight of his loss.

Mycroft visits every few weeks or so, and John will at least attempt to hold stilted, awkward conversation with him. Mycroft is also grieving the loss of his nephew, but Sherlock sees him deal with it the only way he knows how: by throwing himself even more vehemently into work. He occasionally lets slip updates on the situation with Moriarty and Moran, and it takes every ounce of resilience Sherlock has not to grab Mycroft by the lapels and demand he tell him everything. Ignorance is his penance.

However, it is on one of theses such visits that finally everything comes to a ghastly, glorious head. 

Six months, nearly to the day after Hamish is killed, Mycroft shows up for one of these perfunctory visits, but even as his car turns into the drive, Sherlock can tell that something is different this time. The driver’s anxiety is nearly palpable when he goes ‘round the town car to let Mycroft out the back. Mycroft’s stride, though still measured and unhurried, had just the faintest trace of a wobble on the left step when his foot left the pavement.

He forces himself to remain seated, sprawled in one of the armchairs that came with the fully furnished cottage, and has nothing in terms of style or comfort on his beloved club chair back at Baker street, until he hears Mycroft pause just outside the front door. He listens to the sigh, the scrape of the knocker being straightened, and then three succinct raps against the door. It takes all his considerable self restraint to walk, not run, to open the door, roll his eyes, and step aside to grant his brother entrance, with only the mildest of snarky comments.

Mycroft is no fool, and knows that Sherlock knows something is up, but in true big brother style, he does not make things easy on his little brother. He volleys back his own cutting remark about Sherlock’s choice of clothing (pyjamas and a dressing gown, despite the late hour), the state of the kitchen (every conceivable surface covered in various attempts at finding a hobby to fill the void left by the absence of Hamish and the Work), and only when he goes on to comment on how very aged Sherlock looks do the lines around the corners of his eyes deepen, and his jaw clenches infinitesimally as he struggles to keep the expression on his face reflecting condescension rather than concern. 

In an act of uncharacteristic empathy, Sherlock takes pity on Mycroft’s struggle, and forces a haughty glare.

‘I’m assuming you bothered to trek all the way out here for more than just to comment on the state of my hair and countertops, brother mine?’ he spits, though with considerably less venom than used to be the norm back in London.

Mycroft’s expression softens as he clears his throat, and pulls a file from the case at his feet.

‘There has been a new development in regards to James Moriarty,’ he states with forced calm, ‘Mr Moriarty has… _Reappeared_ , shall we say, and has — _ahem —_ requested your presence,’ Mycroft’s years of mastering his emotional reactions come into play, and he keeps his tone deliberately casual and even, but Sherlock sees the naked fear behind his brother’s eyes. It is the look of a man recently acquainted with loss for the first time, after a lifetime of having never known defeat.

‘Reappeared how?’ Sherlock snaps, keeping up appearances, but internally, his heart is stuttering. It isn’t just outwardly that his age has begun to show; inside he feels every day he has lived without his son, without John, and suddenly all he feels is tired. He wonders briefly if these feelings are genuine, or what he has trained himself to believe, and finds that it doesn’t much matter in the end. He feels every bit the old man Mycroft had just snidely accused him of looking like.

‘There’s been a break-in. Several, in fact — Pentonville Prison, the Tower of London, the Bank of England. We have footage,’ Mycroft replies with forced indifference, as he pulls his laptop from its case. 

A few clicks later, and Sherlock is watching Moriarty successfully festoon himself with the Crown Jewels, after crudely painting ‘GET SHERLOCK’ on the glass of what was once their protective case. The video ends, but neither Holmes brother makes a move to close the laptop.

‘What else?’ Sherlock finally asks quietly, ‘You wouldn’t bother coming all the way out here with that stupid look on your face if it had just been an invitation to play, and a glorified case of B&E.’

In answer, his brother reaches back into his briefcase, and pulls a large envelope from it, and hands it wordlessly to Sherlock. Sherlock notices the broken wax seal, the sturdy quality of the manilla envelope, but nothing could have prepared him for what was inside.

It is a stack of photos, the top being a long range photo of the window over their kitchen sink, taken from what appears to be somewhere in their backyard, and John’s face gazing unseeingly through it. The next photo is John, sat on one of the benches in the garden. Reading a book in the morning room. Drinking tea on the front porch. And — good god — sleeping soundly in their bed. That one could have only been captured by someone standing right outside the bedroom window.

The final photo was one of Sherlock himself, on one of his solitary walks through the town, and again, it was taken from so closely that Sherlock is genuinely shocked that he hadn’t noticed it being taken. Scrawled over his face, in giant red letters are the words ‘MISS ME?’

‘You said he would be safe,’ Sherlock says finally. His voice shakes, as if it is not sure to give way to panic or fury, ‘You swore to me that John would be safe here. Protection, 24/7, you said. Maximum security status, Mycroft. _You fucking told me he would be safe_!’ 

He is yelling somehow, and his hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking, and it’s like being on cocaine all over again. His skin is covering live wires; sparking and shocking and burning up. He still can’t tell if it is anger or fear that is coming off him in waves, but it’s enough to make his knees go weak as his heart ricochets off his rib cage. 

‘If he wanted Dr Watson dead or hurt, Sherlock, he would be,’ Mycroft replies, almost gently ‘That he was able to bypass our security team is more a credit to his motivation than anything else. He is sending you a message; nothing more.’

‘Nothing more _yet_ , Mycroft,’ Sherlock snaps, ‘The message is that if I do not re-engage with him, he will get to John, because he has _already_ gotten to John. _That_ is the message,’ he sighs, steeling himself, ‘I’ll have to go. Do we… Do we know how long I have?’

‘You should receive a letter requesting your presence at the trial as a key witness the day after next,’ Mycroft answers, ‘I wanted to give you advanced notice in case John were to-’

‘In case I were to what?’ John interrupts. Sherlock and Mycroft turn simultaneously, guilt on both their faces. John frowns when he sees Sherlock try to surreptitiously sweep the photographs back in their envelope without his notice. He extends an impatient hand to Sherlock, and the gesture is so achingly familiar of the years and years of partnership, passing evidence back and forth whilst working on cases late at night, that Sherlock finds himself staring at John’s open hand for a moment too long, and it takes a terse ‘ _Sherlock_!’ from John to bring him back to the present. 

Sherlock wordlessly passes John the stack of photographs, and watches him carefully as John appraises each one slowly, the crease between his brows deepening with every new shot. When he gets to the final one, the one of Sherlock walking in the lane, and Moriarty’s scrawled message, the pile slips lightly from his hands and lands on the counter beneath them. He visibly blanches, and a muscle in his jaw jumps.

‘It’s _him_ , then, is it… He’s back,’ he asks, but his tone does not turn up at the end of the statement, instead staying flat, even. 

Sherlock nods.

~*~

Mycroft leaves after a few more awkward exchanges, and Sherlock’s promise to ring in the morning so they can plan their next move. Sherlock gathers up the files and photos, and arranges them in a neat stack before busying himself with putting the kettle on, and rummaging in the cupboards for biscuits. John remains in the same position he was in when Sherlock confirmed his suspicion ( _fear_?) that Moriarty had indeed returned.

The kettle whistles, and Sherlock hastily prepares two cups of tea, and forces one into John’s hands. He stares down at his own cup before speaking, his voice low, broken.

‘I… I am being called back to London,’ he admits quietly, ‘The photographs… They were to ensure I go willingly. They… I… He will not get to you, John, I swear it. His quarrel… It is with me, and me alone. If I… Engage with him, one last time, I believe he will be satisfied.’

‘One last time?’ John repeats, and this time it truly is a question. Sherlock smiles sadly, wanting so terribly to take John’s hand in his, but instead gripping his tea cup even more tightly.

‘It’s all a facade,’ he explains, for once getting no pleasure from having an audience for his brilliance. He had worked it out the moment he saw Moriarty on video, ‘The break-ins, the arrest, the trial, all of it. The focus is so singularly on Moriarty that no one is questioning as to where Moran has gotten off to. They intend to draw me back to London, and… Well, I should expect Sebastian Moran will arrive at 221B before my bags. It was never about calling in a witness, it was about getting me back in the crosshairs.’

Sherlock raises his cup to his lips, and takes a long swallow before he continues, still refusing to look at John, ‘John, I… I want you to know that I spoke with our attorney and Mycroft a few weeks ago, and updated my will in case something like this were to happen. You have been named the beneficiary on what remains of my trust, and on any accounts or investments that were not in both our names. The title of this house has been transferred to your name. I have written instructions for… After. No fuss, no service, and if… If there is a body, please give it to Barts for future study. And… And please know that, despite everything, I would not trade a single moment of these last twenty-two years for anything in the world. You, and… And Hamish were… Are… Everything. And I hope, in time, you will be able to forgive me.’

John still does not move or speak, so Sherlock simply swallows hard, and goes to return his still mostly full cup of tea to the kitchen, but as he passes by, a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. Startled, Sherlock stops and whips around, and finds himself face-to-face with his furious husband.

‘So that’s it, then?’ John says angrily, ‘You’ve made funeral arrangements, and updated your will, and now you’re off to commit hari-kari on the end of Sebastian Moran’s rifle?’

‘What choice do I have, John!’ Sherlock explodes, wrenching himself from John’s grip, the months of tension, and grief, and loneliness, and fear all coming out at once, ‘He has all but said that if I do not engage with him, he will cone after _you_ instead, and that is not an exchange I am willing to make,’ he pauses, then adds petulantly, ‘And also, what I said was the literal opposite of funeral arrangements. I’ve made my wishes exceedingly clear about that.’

‘Right, because that was the point,’ John fires back, ‘You’re just so resigned to the fact that you’re going to faff off and die that you’ve made all these _plans_ and _instructions_ and _wishes_ , well what I want to know is _are you or are you not Sherlock fucking Holmes_ , because the Sherlock I know would never consent to defeat like this.’

‘The Sherlock you know,’ Sherlock says coldly, ‘Got his fucking son murdered in cold blood, and held him as he bled out in a _dirty fucking alley_. The Sherlock you know is a reckless piece of shit who is better off dead, rather than risking the lives of the few people he cares about in this pointless waste of a world. I’ve imagined death so often it feels more like a memory, John, but to have to fathom yours… That is not an exercise I am willing to partake in.’

‘So instead, you would rather leave _me_ alone in this ‘pointless waste of a world’?’ John breathes, dangerously, ‘You selfish, fucking prick.’

‘You’ve not looked at me in months, John,’ Sherlock replies tiredly, though still flinching at being called names, ‘It’s been even longer since you’ve willingly spoken to me. I think… I think parting ways at this time could only do you well, and perhaps finally allow you to heal. And I don’t begrudge you that. I understand completely.’

‘That doesn’t mean I…’ John starts, but can’t seem to continue, and his face seems to collapse in on itself, and he covers it with his hands. Sherlock watches curiously as John massages his temples, and scrubs his hands over his face before seeming to steel himself. 

‘That doesn’t mean I don’t still love you,’ John repeats carefully, ‘And it certainly doesn’t mean that I don’t want you alive, or with me. I… Sherlock, these last six months have destroyed me. It’s like screaming into the void every moment, and no one can hear me, and I can’t seem to find a way out. I’ve never felt anything close to this level of all-consuming anguish. But… It was never about you, and I shouldn’t have said it was,’ he takes a deep breath, ‘You are still… You are still the best man, and most… Human human being that I’ve ever known. And I love you so much. So please… Just stop it. Stop this now, and let’s figure out another plan. Together.’

Sherlock is silent for a long moment, then, shakily, extends his hand to John.

John takes it.

They stand there, the sun setting outside their kitchen window, bathing the room in red-orange light.

After a time, Sherlock clears his throat, and speaks, still gripping John’s hand in his.

‘I still have to go to London,’ he whispers, ‘I’m being called into court; if I don’t go, they’ll just subpoena me in anyway.’

John thinks for a moment, then he offers a small smile, the first one he’s had in months.

‘It’s quiet uptown,’ he says mildly, ‘I quite miss the hustle and bustle of the city. You’ll return to London, and I’ll go with you. As a team this time, Sherlock, you can’t go off and make these big decisions on your own. We’ll go, and we’ll stop Moriarty and Moran, we’ll avenge our boy. Together.’

_Together_. Warmth glows somewhere low in Sherlock’s belly, and it washes over Sherlock as he nods, knowing he will agree to any terms John lays out if it means he has him back. 

Together means _no longer alone_.  
Together means _strength_.  
Together means _love_.  
Together means _being forgiven_.

_Forgiveness… Can you imagine?_

**Author's Note:**

> _It’s Quiet Uptown  
>  Kelly Clarkson — the Hamilton MixTape_
> 
> _There are moments that the words don't reach  
>  There is suffering too terrible to name  
> You hold your child as tight as you can  
> Then push away the unimaginable  
> The moments when you're in so deep  
> Feels easier to just swim down  
> And so they move uptown  
> And learn to live with the unimaginable_
> 
> _I spend hours in the garden  
>  I walk alone to the store  
> And it's quiet uptown  
> I never liked the quiet before  
> I take the children to church on Sunday  
> A sign of the cross at the door  
> And I pray  
> That never used to happen before_
> 
> _(If you see him in the street, walking by himself  
>  Talking to himself, have pity)  
> You would like it uptown, it's quiet uptown  
> (He is working through the unimaginable  
> His hair has gone grey, he passes every day  
> They say he walks the length of the city)  
> You knock me out, I fall apart  
> (Can you imagine?)_
> 
> _Look at where we are  
>  Look at where we started  
> I know I don't deserve you  
> But hear me out, that would be enough  
> If I could spare his life  
> If I could trade his life for mine  
> He'd be standing here right now  
> And you would smile, and that would be enough  
> I don't pretend to know  
> The challenges we're facing  
> I know there's no replacing what we've lost  
> And you need time  
> But I'm not afraid, I know who I married  
> Just let me stay here by your side  
> And that would be enough_
> 
> _(If you see him in the street, walking by her side  
>  Talking by her side, have pity)  
> Do you like it uptown? It's quiet uptown  
> (He is trying to do the unimaginable  
> See them walking in the park, long after dark)  
> Taking in the sights of the city  
> Look around, look around, look around  
> (They are trying to do the unimaginable)_
> 
> _There are moments that the words don't reach  
>  There's a grace too powerful to name  
> We push away what we can never understand  
> We push away the unimaginable  
> They are standing in the garden  
> Standing there side by side  
> She takes his hand  
> It's quiet uptown_
> 
> _Forgiveness, can you imagine?  
>  Forgiveness, can you imagine?  
> (If you see him in the street, walking by her side  
> Talking by her side, have pity)  
> Look around, look around  
> They are going through the unimaginable_
> 
> If you’ve never heard her version, I highly recommend giving it a listen.  
> https://youtu.be/DK4QRnBiTPA


End file.
